


hopeless romantics

by mayor_crumblepot



Series: nygmobblepot tumblr fills [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, M/M, and a little bit of pining, its honestly just massive massive fluff, jewish ed, set in the mayor era, yall can pry THAT shit outta my fucking cold dead hands t h a n k s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 04:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14370819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayor_crumblepot/pseuds/mayor_crumblepot
Summary: prompt:"i know we’re best friends and all, but could you maybe be my date to my step-sister’s wedding to prove to my judgmental relatives that i can find love and that i won’t be alone for the rest of my life? + a canon divergence where Oswald’s dad survives for the sake of a storyline"





	hopeless romantics

When Oswald’s father divorced his wife, Oswald considered killing the woman and her two children. He considered roasting his step-siblings, cooking them up on a skewer and serving them to their mother, considered hanging them from the high vaulted ceilings of his father’s estate, considered putting their heads on stakes and leaving them in the front lawn to rot. At this point, they’re related merely by history, neither blood or law; there is nothing, for Oswald, presenting resistance to the death of these three terrible, rude people. 

And yet.

“Family is family,” his father says, and Oswald can’t really argue that, because that same sentiment is what keeps him in the family, as well. He supposes he shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds him, that keeps him connected to the only family he has— he loves his father dearly, and his extended family begrudgingly. Overall, he knows his mother would want him to be involved with them, no matter how tacky and judgmental they can be. 

The questions start as soon as Oswald reinserts himself into his family after  _finding himself_  once again. His father comes to his aid, defends him where he can, but only so much can be done. 

_Sasha is bringing her fiancé to dinner, Oswald. Who will you be bringing?_

_Surely you must have someone._

_The clock is ticking, Oswald. You aren’t getting any younger._

_No children? Not even a_ wife? _Better hurry up._

He doesn’t know the proper way to express that his lifestyle doesn’t quite make room for children, or relationships, for that matter. Often, he jokes that the only way he’ll come into having a child is if one follows him directly off of the playground, imprinting upon him like a duckling. He doubts that will ever happen. 

When he finds out that Sasha is getting married, tearing open an invitation over breakfast while Ed reads through his mayoral schedule, he practically sinks out of his chair. No part of him wants to attend this event. 

His family will never stop asking him questions. God, even  _Charles_  has a fiancé. He’s the last one, and they’re sure to let him know. Surely, by now, they wonder if anyone will have him. Pushing thirty, it’s a terrifying existence to consider; dying alone. He’s braved death alone already, he doesn’t particularly want to do it again. It would be nice to have someone at his side. 

Oswald isn’t sure how he asks Ed. He really isn’t sure, when he tries to recall the conversation his mind blanks out and simply provides him with the moment Ed repeats it all back to him; “You want me to pose as your partner for a wedding, to prove your family wrong. That’s fair, and I’m happy to help. Remember, I don’t eat pork.” 

* * *

The entire thing is easier said than done, Oswald realizes. None of it seems to be bothering Ed, of course. He stands at Oswald’s left side, arm wrapped around the small of his back, wearing his business smile and his nicest black suit. In pinstripe, Oswald cuts a particularly regal figure next to him, as is the intention. 

Sitting in a church pew is an experience Oswald hasn’t had in years. Ed expresses, briefly before the ceremony begins, that the synagogue he went to as a child didn’t have pews, just folding chairs that would catch his jacket when he sat down. Oswald can’t help but be amused by the image; Ed, all long legs and arms, having to carefully sit down as not to have his jacket fold up. And yet, despite his apparent inexperience in such a setting, Ed fares better than Oswald does. He follows the cues to stand and sit easily, always offering Oswald a hand for assistance— Oswald has to take it every time. 

As soon as they’re allowed to leave, Oswald hauls himself out and back toward the car. He doesn’t want to be stopped by anyone, doesn’t want to talk to anyone; he wants to get in the car, he wants to have the driver take them to the reception dinner, and he wants to drink. Ed, kindly, tries to oblige. 

It’s never so simple, but they make it away from the church without any incident, except for Oswald repeatedly pretending to be on the phone in order to  _not_  have to talk to family members. 

Most everyone at the reception dinner who isn’t the family of the groom is related to Elijah’s ex-wife; few Van Dahls remain, and very few of those that do were invited to this particular event. It doesn’t help Oswald, merely makes him feel out of place at a table full of people who likely heard painfully revealing gossip about him as soon as he came into his father’s life. The bastard son, the false heir, the lesser, the criminal. 

He stands closely to Ed’s side as they greet the newlyweds, has to crane his neck to see the groom’s face. The man may be handsome, but there’s absolutely nothing behind the eyes. “What a catch, sister, dear,” Oswald says, voice dripping with insincerity and venom.

“As is yours,” Sasha offers Ed her hand, tugs him down by it to get a better look at him. “Where’d you find this?” 

“A man must have his secrets,” he puts his hand up across Ed’s chest, moves him two steps back from Sasha, “you understand.” 

The groom and Ed share a hollow glance; two men out of place but kept by conviction. Such is love. 

It feels, at least to Oswald, that everyone around them is watching them. Maybe it’s his nerves, naturally tuned into the proper level of vigilance that is required in Gotham, not so much in a wedding, purposefully held upstate. Or maybe, he’s right. 

He’s right, because Ed is doing so well. Ed is laughing at his snarky comments, corroborating his stories with what feels like a practiced ease, catching him before he can stumble, bringing him drinks and stealing hearts all the way. By all accounts, Ed is perfect. (Then again, Oswald already knew that. But to see him fawned over by such hard to please members of his family? It makes something sick and depraved in his heart twist up, like a dry heave the morning after a binge of vodka and rum. It makes him think of that night on the couch, makes him think of the way Ed’s skin gives off fireplace heat, the way Ed looks at him, over his glasses and full of trust. Oswald hears his mother in his ears;  _What good is love if it is one-sided?_  He wishes she were here.)

“You ought to marry him,” a woman says to Oswald, quite possibly someone he’s supposed to be related to, as Ed is distracted by a cousin, aunt, grandmother,  _someone_  who works in ballistics in Metropolis, “don’t let him get away. He loves you.” 

And maybe it’s a mockery. Maybe she can see right into his desperate eyes, can see through what he hopes come across as loving gazes, right into his longing, his despair, his lack of understanding as to why this is simultaneously the easiest and most difficult thing he’s ever done. Or, maybe, she sees something he doesn’t. He hopes that’s the case. 

“I intend to,” he assures her, speaking loudly enough that Ed will be able to hear him. “I just know there’s no one I’d rather have at my side than him,” Oswald puts his hand on Ed’s knee, makes a show of tensing his fingers around the soft flesh;  _mine_  it says, “he’s absolutely remarkable.” 

Ed melts under the praise, casually drops a kiss to the side of Oswald’s head when he gets up for more drinks. Neither of them try to read too heavily into it. With a driver waiting patiently in the car, there’s no excuse for either of them to endure the event sober, and being able to drink allows Oswald to pretend all of this could be real. Just for a minute. 

It all goes so well until Elijah dances with Sasha, passes her off to her new husband with a reverence that only loving fathers can have for their daughters. Oswald admires that, in Elijah; the ability to look past a grudge and see a person who lacks something he can provide. (Sasha has a father of blood, but he isn’t at her wedding, he doesn’t love or appreciate her quite like Elijah does. Elijah spent so long thinking he had no children of his own, couldn’t help himself from loving a daughter who was beautiful like he dreamed his child with Gertrud could have been. It isn’t the girl’s fault that her mother’s hand brought her up cruel and vicious; sometimes it’s safer for a girl to be cruel in Gotham, than it is for her to feel loved. He can’t hold that against her, all he can hope to do is warm a hole through the ice around her.) Oswald knows, despite his relation, he will never be able to be as forgiving as his father. 

It could be all of the alcohol in his system, but Oswald can’t help but be jealous as he watches Sasha’s husband bring her around the floor, as he comfortably dips her and suddenly everyone else is out on the floor with them. Instead of following them, Oswald tucks his chair up next to Ed’s and rubs at his ankle. He listens as Ed describes the various things he’s learned, some news old but Oswald pretends it isn’t, if nothing else but to let Ed speak uninterrupted. Absently, their hands come together and Ed gestures into Oswald’s, draws tiny diagrams with his fingertip into Oswald’s palm. 

He isn’t choked up, because he shouldn’t be. Because he’s the  _fucking_  penguin; he’s killed men, destroyed families, uprooted hundred-year-old precedents— he does not get choked up at mere gestures of domesticity. But he does, because he thinks about waking up next to Ed, he thinks about a stupid piece of metal being a representation of something so much bigger, he imagines hyphens and shared safe houses.

“What exactly is it about Oswald?” Someone asks Ed, after having distracted Ed from his lecture on the gossip in the family tree, “I can’t imagine he was your first suitor, is all.” 

“Oswald is fantastic,” Ed says, haughty, tone like he’s stating one of his various facts, tidbits of knowledge that he understands as  _inherently true_  and without question. “He’s the only one— he sees me for who I am. There’s nothing more important than authenticity, now is there?” His fingers circle around Oswald’s wrist, then slide up between his fingers, closing down and holding his hand firmly. Ed pats the top of Oswald’s hand, hums contentedly, “Though, honestly, what isn’t to love?” 

Oswald chokes on his emotionality, but covers it up as a cough. He excuses himself, squeezing Ed’s hand before disengaging in the direction of the open bar. The person talking to Ed tries to say “he’s always doing this,” and it makes Oswald want to wheel around and scream. He wants to grab them by the shoulders and say, “You don’t know me, you’ve never known me.  _Ed_  knows me,” but he knows that an outburst like that would put all of Ed’s effort to waste. And he’s obviously tried so hard. 

When he gets to the bar he orders something strong, something with vodka, and he has a few. Not enough, not by far, but when he comes back with white wine for the both of them, he’s significantly less capable of listening in to whatever Ed is saying to other people. 

“Would you like to dance?” Ed asks him, later on in the night, once the music has slowed down and the children have filtered out of the reception hall, leaving only those interested in continuing to drink and socialize. “I’m a very good dancer, you know.” 

“I’m sure you are,” Oswald says, and he means it. Ed is good at everything he sets his mind to. “With this leg, though, I’m afraid I’m not.” 

Ed sits, watches the other couples on the floor, before turning back to Oswald with a smile. “Take your shoes off,” he starts to unlace his own, “you can put your bad foot on top of mine. It’ll alleviate the pressure.” 

“I—”

“It’s tradition to dance at weddings,” he argues, “I’m sure it brings bad luck if someone refuses to dance.”

“What if I  _want_  to bring her bad luck?” Oswald is sour, though he does work at untying his own shoes and setting them beside Ed’s. He leans his cane against the table and hopes that nobody is stupid enough to try and steal it.

“Then do it for me,” Ed stands up and offers Oswald his hand, so gentlemanly it hurts, “I haven’t been able to do something like this before.” 

For the first few steps, it feels as though neither of them quite knows what to do; both drunkenly stumbling until they find their bearings within one another. Oswald gets used to the feeling of Ed lifting his foot with his own, learns to follow it with his good leg like he does his cane. Doing things traditionally is a lost cause, Oswald a little too tipsy to remember the proper positioning for his hands, so he just wraps his arms over Ed’s shoulders and settles his face against the junction of his shoulder and neck. Ed has to lean down, just a touch, to properly drape his arms around Oswald’s hips, fitting them against one another perfectly. 

“I’ve been rather selfish,” Oswald admits, after they’ve been dancing for a few minutes, “I must confess.” 

“Oh?” At no point does Ed stop their slow swaying, the gradual spin they’re following. 

“I—” He huffs, doesn’t notice how Ed shivers when the breath goes over his neck, “It wasn’t fair of me, to ask you to do this, considering the circumstances.” 

Ed’s arms tighten minutely around his hips, fingertips twitching, “Circumstances?” 

“This entire night, I—” the emotion returns to Oswald’s voice, and while he knows Ed will never mock him for it, he’s still loathe to let it manifest. “I love you, Ed. I don’t know what I thought— it was just— I apologize.” 

“You’re not teasing me,” Ed’s breath is hot and uneven where it flutters over the shell of Oswald’s ear, shuddering like tears or wet brakes, “are you?” 

“God, Ed, no,” when Oswald pulls back, he takes hold of the sides of Ed’s face, grip loose but still caging. Ed can see his sincerity, just as he’s been able to see his jealousy and discomfort the whole night; he’s simply misread it as something negative toward him. “Why would I tease  _you_  about—”

Ed dips him back, carefully rearranging his arms so that he can hold Oswald easily, in case his good leg slips out from beneath him. He steals a kiss when Oswald’s mouth is still parted, aborted words no longer daring to escape. It’s simple, sweet, and so easy to get lost in— Ed has to consistently remind himself not to let go of Oswald, not to slide both hands up into his expertly styled hair. 

“You fogged up my glasses,” Ed laughs, once they’ve righted themselves and have resumed dancing. “I love you. I had just—”

It’s Oswald’s turn to kiss Ed, getting up on the tips of his toes despite the pain it causes him. He surges up into Ed, nearly knocks the both of them over and doesn’t even care enough about it to apologize once he’s broken away for breath, “You understand my family will want you at events, after this.” 

“That’s fine with me,” Ed admits, sheepish as he positions his wide palms over Oswald’s hips rather than wrapping his arms around them, “you’ve convinced them to love me, with all your compliments.” 

“I’m afraid you’re starting to do the same,” Oswald’s fingers drag down, over the lapels of Ed’s suit as he makes himself comfortable against his chest, “you make me sound much better than I am. I appreciate that.” 

“I didn’t say anything untrue, you know.” 

“Nor did I.” 

“We’re going to be one of those terribly affectionate couples,” without realizing it, Ed has started tapping the rhythm of the song into Oswald’s hip, “aren’t we?”

“Oh, I do hope so.” 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


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